The Ransom Drop: The Response Files, #1

By Rob Phayre

How do you deliver a ransom and rescue the ships crew from the most dangerous place on Earth?

 

The Hibernia III is captured by Somali Pirates, with 23 crew on board, and a hundred million dollars of oil.
Abdi and his team of novices seize it more by luck than judgement and negotiate the deal of their lives.

How do they collect the money when they live in one of the most dangerous places on earth?

How can Max and his team rescue the ship and its crew?

All the while, The Associate looks on from afar. Playing his games, and weaving his sinister webs. His actions and whims have a devastating effect on everyone he touches. They just don't know it yet. 

The Ransom Drop, a true to real life, military suspense thriller, that reveals the secrets behind the resolution of Somali piracy. It's a factually correct, intense page turner, and it's written by the guy who delivered some of the largest ransoms ever paid at sea.

 

Awards and Reviews

Winner of the AudioBookReviewer.Com 'Reviewers Choice' award.

Rob Phayre winner of the 'Best New Author 2021' from ABR.

Publishers Weekly 'Starred Review'.

Indies Today 5 star recommended!

Readers Favourite, Prairies Book Review and BookView - 5 Stars!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Phayre
• Release date: Nov 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223148067

Book preview

Prologue

November 3rd, Hobyo, Somalia.

Abdi’s face was hard up against the ground, his nostrils in the dust, his heart hammering in terror. Every fibre of his scrawny body tried desperately to burrow hard below the surface. Through fearful eyes, wide open in shock, his brain had tried to process so many details that he had glitched-out, frozen, incapable. The automatic gunfire. The harsh crack of fragmentation hitting concrete and rock. The acrid sweet smell of cordite. The occasional wet slap of bullets hitting flesh. The screams of the wounded and the dying.

What the fuck is happening? Will I die today? I’m only 25! Allah be merciful! Please don’t let it hurt.

His brain cropped out the excess stimuli, a survival instinct, it was desperately trying to process. His eyes focussed on a face that was staring at him from only a few meters away. The face was shouting at him, but Abdi’s ears weren’t working. It took intense effort to reconnect them to his brain and to focus on what was being said.

‘Abdi, you are no good there! You are curling up like a baby in the womb. Pick up your weapon and fight!’

Through the fog and noise Abdi understood what Dalmar had shouted even as Dalmar stood up from behind the wall they were hiding behind. Dalmar fired several shots from his AK-47 in the direction of the attackers and then ducked back down laughing maniacally.

Abdi held his breath as the crack and whine of bullets passing over their heads increased momentarily before fading away again. He stared at the brute that was Dalmar. He physically very different to the traditional, light Somali build and was feared by many. Abdi knew that he was mean and grumpy and had spent much of his youth as a gun for hire. Dalmar never went anywhere without his AK-47 or wearing his rotten, gap-toothed leer. His pride and joy was his faded green ‘webbing’, a system of belts and pouches that allowed a fighter to carry magazines, spare ammunition, a first aid kit and a water bottle. In short, all you needed for a brief contact battle.  It was rumoured that Dalmar’s webbing had been taken from the body of a US Marine killed during a disastrous recovery mission in Mogadishu in 1993.

Dalmar was one of the fighters under the pay of Abdi’s father who was the clan chief and ruler of Hobyo. Less than thirty minutes ago one of the fighters had burst into Mohamed’s house shouting to the chief that one of the neighbouring warlords was about to raid the camel coral on the Northern boundary of the town. Ten minutes later, after a mad dash across the town in battered old pickup trucks, Abdi found himself with a group of other men hiding behind a wall with a rifle in his hand and beginning to panic.

Abdi was born in Hobyo but hadn’t been home for a few years. Until a week or so ago Abdi had been living in London.  None of his family had ever gotten a Master’s degree, let alone from a prestigious school like the London School of Economics.  His certificate was still sitting in his bag still back at the house and Abdi was proud of his achievement despite the fact that the piece of paper sometimes felt like an IOU note to his family.  They had given up a lot to send him away for his extortionately expensive education. Nothing in that education had prepared him to be where he was right now. 

‘Abdi, get off your belly and come with me!’ Dalmar was crawling past Abdi using the low wall as cover and heading towards an irrigation ditch. The harsh honking of camels had joined the cacophony of noise but somehow Abdi’s brain was functioning again. He grasped what Dalmar wanted to do and staying close to the ground crawled after him. His adrenaline levels kept his muscles moving with strength he didn’t know he possessed and together he and Dalmar followed the ditch. It flanked wide and to the west of the attackers’ positions. After about a hundred meters, Dalmar slowly lifted his head out of the ditch, looked left and right and then ducked back down.

‘Ok, there are perhaps six of them, behind the wall of the camel shed. Let’s go another fifty meters and that will give us the chance to come up to the side of them.’

Trying to control his breathing, ‘What would you like me to do?’

Dalmar looked at Abdi and spoke calmly, ‘I want you to fight, I want you to kill, I want you to show me you are not just the spoiled precious son of the chief.’

‘But I have never done this before.’

‘Well, this is where you prove that you are a man or not. This is where you prove that you will one day be fit to lead this clan. Today you can grasp your future by the balls, or you can go back to hiding behind that wall holding your own limp dick.’

Dalmar moved off down the ditch without looking back. Despite his terror Abdi followed him, muttering a prayer to Allah all the way. The crescendo of gunfire had peaked again but there was no tell-tale snap indicating rounds coming in their direction. Dalmar stopped and looked back to see Abdi only a meter or two behind him.

‘Good, we will attack now. Is your magazine full?’

‘Yes. I haven’t fired yet.’

‘Were you waiting for a personal invitation?  Do you not want to protect your clan?’

With growing defiance, Abdi answered back. ‘I will do everything to protect my clan, now let’s get this done.’

Dalmar glanced at the rifle in Abdi’s hands. ‘You will need to take the safety catch off first.’

Abdi glanced down to see that the safety catch was already off. Embarrassed that he had looked and obviously still scared he said. ‘Fuck you Dalmar.’

‘Let’s see boy. I will attack the men behind the wall.  Your job is to watch my back. Can you do that?’ Without waiting for a reply, Dalmar stood up and started to crouch walk towards the enemy clan fighters.  Six of them were lined up behind the white stone camel coral walls firing towards the Hobyo clan less than a hundred meters away to the South. None were looking at Dalmar as he advanced with his weapon ready in his shoulder. Abdi followed, heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, sweat pouring off his face caking the dust above his eyes.

The first men behind the wall didn’t know that death was with them until Dalmar opened fire. Thirty rounds from his magazine spat along this side of the wall and back again. The man last in line knew death was coming but only had time to half rotate his weapon before bullets thumped across his chest. Blood and gore spattered the white stone walls and Dalmar kept firing until his magazine was empty. He dropped to one knee and was reaching for another magazine in his webbing when two new men arrived from behind the camel shed. There was a moment. Dalmar saw them coming but was still helplessly fishing. The men saw their dead colleagues, comprehension dawning as they raised their weapons. Abdi screamed to self-motivate and started firing. The first man died immediately, flopping to the ground. The second tried to jump behind the cover of the wall but was caught by a shot to the side of his chest. Abdi ran towards him, firing relentlessly until that man’s chest was a mess of splintered bone and blood.

With an empty magazine, Abdi turned to look at Dalmar. All the shooting had stopped now and whoops of victory were coming from the other side of the coral.  Dalmar clicked a new magazine into his weapon and stood up. ‘Not such a limp dick after all.’

Chapter 1

March 12th, Hobyo, Somalia.

The East coast of Somalia. A desolate place where the Indian Ocean rolls onto a thousand-kilometre-long beach. The parched sand merges into a granular dusty soil that stretches far inland. If it’s lucky, it receives 20 centimetres of rain a year, but somehow tufts of rough grasses cling to life. Not a lot else does.

Under the breaking surf, sea life thrives, from shrimps to sharks they have had a brief respite from humanity. A long civil war massively impacted the local fishing industry.  That’s changing now though, with the foreign industrial fishing ships that have started pillaging their way up and down the coast.

Four months after the camel coral incident, Abdi is sat on a tussock staring out to sea. He’s wearing faded pale blue jeans and a light linen shirt that’s frayed around the edges. He has high cheekbones and is skinny, though that’s more genetics than poverty speaking.  Abdi is luckier than most, his father is a warlord. One of the lesser warlords, but still ruler of Hobyo and one day Abdi will inherit the title if the elders agree. Like so many young people, Abdi has a strong desire for more, for better. He wants to make his mark on the world. He wants wealth, security, and power, for his clan, for himself. He wants a reputation; he wants freedom, and he has a plan.

To a Westerner, Hobyo is a nowhere place, three hundred or so houses sprinkled haphazardly around a few dusty tracks that pass for roads that parallel the coast.  The houses are made of what looks like a white stone. If you look closer though, it’s not stone, it’s compacted and fossilized corral, bleached white and left on land during the retreat of the sea a million years ago.  It’s everywhere and it is cheap.  Just kick up a few inches of dusty sand and you have a quarry. The houses are mostly single story with rusting tin roofs that you can quite literally cook off under the blazing heat of the sun.  Most of the houses have a compound wall around them, more to keep the goats under control than to prevent crime.  The clan structures deal with the latter.  Theft is not tolerated in this community. Abdi’s father provides brutal and swift justice and blood feuds go on for generations. Of course, pride of place in the centre of the town is the mosque. It has a domed white painted roof, but just the one minaret as that is all the inhabitants could afford to build at the time. That said, the intricate carving on this tall symbol of their faith from which the call to prayer came five times per day was a huge source of pride.

Hobyo sits back about 200 meters from the shoreline. A band of beach lies between the sea and the town.  It provides security from a surging tide and it’s somewhere for the population to do their daily toilet. Magically, twice a day, nature cleans the beach with the tide and washes away the filth, stench, and the flies.

Around the town, there are no fields, there is noabundance of crops. There are not even many trees. Most were cut down years ago for firewood. What Hobyo does have though is priceless to the community.  A naturally formed stone breakwater juts out to sea. It sticks out for about 300 meters, and whilst it is broken in places, it provides protection to the fleet of simple fishing boats moored by the beach.

Abdi watched the fishermen at work, mesmerized at how hard it was to make a living from the sea.  In the last few years, it had become even harder. Huge factory fishing vessels sailed thousands of kilometres from China and the far east to hoover up every fish in the sea before returning home.

Abdi has come home with a degree and a plan that he has spent months preparing in his mind.  He needs the support of his father once more, and his father will need the support of other much more powerful men.  Abdi wasn’t worried about getting the money to finance his plan.  Good ideas always attract investment, and he knows that this is a really good idea, he has done the math.

Chapter 2

March 14th, Hobyo, Somalia.

Abdi’s father’s short, dark, curly hair was going grey at the age of 45. Mohamed’s beard though was stained an unnatural bright orange. He had been treating it with henna since the day he assumed responsibility for the clan and in part it denoted his status as an elder. Mohamed had stained yellow teeth with the two top front ones missing creating a gaping gap. Some of the others were black and rotting, the result of chewing khat for 30 years. Chewing was what Mohamed was doing while he was squatting in the shade in the courtyard of his house when Abdi walked in.

‘Father, salaam alaikum,’ Abdi greeted his father cautiously, never certain how responsive he would be when chewing the intoxicating leaf.

‘Wa alaikum salaam,’ his father replied, surprisingly sprightly and in a good mood. ‘How was your morning?’ he continued.

‘To be honest, even after these months I am still getting used to not hearing the London traffic. It is good to hear the sound of the sea again and it is good to be home.’ If Abdi was really honest, he missed the bustle of London. He missed the women; he missed the whiskey, but he couldn’t say that to his father.

Abdi’s father was shrewd though and with his eyes unreadable continued to probe, ‘And what do you miss about that part of your life?’

‘I miss how busy my life was there. I miss the learning, not just from my academic studies, but studying the infidel. I never got used to how frivolous life was for so many of them. Living from one immediate gratification to the next with no thought of how hard life can be.  If we had the tiniest fraction of the wealth that they have in London here in Hobyo, we could make Hobyo a trading city and the pride of Somalia.’

Abdi’s voice had become more passionate than he had intended during that short speech, and his father chuckled. As he did so, he tore another bunch of fresh green leaves from his twig of khat folded them up and popped them in his mouth, ‘And so my son what would you do?  How will you use your learnings to not just be ‘busy’ but to be productive? What do you need to bring greatness to our city and esteem to our clan?’

‘Father, that answer is both simple and difficult.  I need several things.  I need you to have faith in my abilities.  I need you to allow me to walk my path knowing that I seek to bring both wealth and power to our clan in your name. I need you to protect me from those forces near us that may seek to stop me. And finally, father, I need to borrow one hundred thousand United States dollars for a period of one year.’

Abdi’s father didn’t reply. He hawked a great globule of black phlegmy juice that had slowly been collecting around his tongue and then propelled it, through the gap in his front teeth to a place on the dirt about two meters to his right.

Chapter 3

August 5th, Hobyo, Somalia.

It turned out, getting the money hadn’t been that hard. Repaying it would be. In Islamic finance, money had no actual value in its own right, it was just a medium of exchange. No one was allowed to make a profit from lending or borrowing money but there was always a cost.

Six months later Abdi was recalling the conversation he had had with his father in March. Mohamed had told Abdi that he had made an agreement with one of his associates to fund a joint venture under the system of Musharaka. Abdi knew from his studies that this meant that a person had lent the money with a specific agreement on the sharing of any proceeds from the business enterprise.  When Abdi heard that the arrangement was for 75% of the entire project earnings he nearly exploded.  ‘Of course,’ his father had calmly told him, ‘to achieve 25% of whatever it was going to be from holding nothing in his hand to start with, was a fair deal.’

  Abdi had taken the money and spent much of it equipping his business. He was still fuming about the rate of ‘tax’ but wasn’t going to let it spoil his day.

Today was the start of it all. Abdi’s plans and his dream were coming together.  In front of him now, driving down the track towards the beach was a battered old Mercedes truck. Its garish blue paint just about held the rusting box shaped cab together. The tyres were down to the wire and threads and the exhaust was pumping out more black smoke than some of the ancient old boats that plied their trade up and down the coast.

Of course, the truck wasn’t the dream.  It was the flatbed trailer that it was pulling. On that was a 50-foot shipping container, the contents of which had been put together by his father’s associate in Dubai about six weeks ago. The container had been shipped to the port in Mogadishu and had just completed a nearly 900-kilometre drive along the coast.  It was only because his father had let it be known that it was his, that they hadn’t had to pay extensive ‘taxes’ to let it pass through the territories of the other clans.  It was a privilege that the leaders afforded each other most of the time, whilst charging a transit tax for everyone else.  This faded green metal container held everything that Abdi needed to get his new enterprise up and running.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and there was the normal slow but efficient work of the fishermen who were tending to their nets and boats, preparing for the evening tide to go out and fish.  Abdi had already arranged for ten young men to help him as labourers. He needed their help in unloading the container, but he hadn’t told them what was in it yet.  They would see soon enough.

Despite having just driven such a long way, the Mercedes found the final 200 meters across the sand dunes to the beach to be the hardest work. After much shouting and cajoling the driver finally said the truck had had enough. It stopped like a beached whale about 80 meters from the shoreline so it wouldn’t get bogged in.  The young men crowded around the back waiting with anticipation to unload.  Abdi walked up and with a pair of bolt cutters, clipped the seal on the container. With a screech of protesting metal he tried to lift the door lever but it wouldn’t open on the first try. Abdi became conscious of all the young men who had grown up on the sea with salt in their veins and strength in their arms. How foolish would he look if he, the academic, couldn’t open his dream? He gave a mighty push again, pulling a muscle deep down inside his shoulder blade but thankfully the door opened.  Honour restored, he walked in letting his eyes adjust.

With the evening sun shining into the dark space, but with the heat of the day still radiating off the hot metal of the container, Abdi’s heart raced.  In front of him were four brand new boats.  They were not the wide, stable, fishing tubs that the men used here for bringing their catch home. They had their purpose, but they were not suitable for his needs.  These were ‘skiffs.’ Sleek boats that were 30 feet long, with pointed noses, slim and fast. The hulls were all a pale grey colour with a black line painted all around the gunwale.  Further towards the back of the container Abdi could see the crates containing the engines.  Four brand-new 110 horsepower Yamaha fuel injected petrol engines with enough power to propel these skiffs to 25 or 30 knots. 

Beside them, lashed down were four much smaller 15 horsepower engines.  No one wanted to go far out to sea relying on just one engine, no matter how new, how shiny and how powerful. Tucked into a back corner of the container were some heavy-duty waterproof boxes made out of a solid black plastic.  Abdi knew what was in those but didn’t go to open them just yet. Instead, he stepped back outside to get some cooler air and his sweat started to instantly evaporate, he was approached by Zahi.

Zahi was about 30 years old, one of the more experienced fishermen who had led his own boat since he was 16. As a result, he was powerfully built, sinew and muscles showed in his shoulders and forearms. A deep scar on his left cheek gave him a bit of a lopsided look so he wasn’t an attractive man.  His father had become too ill to take the family boat out anymore, but rather than sell it and lose the one source of family income Zahi had stepped up to lead.  His father had needed a lot of money to pay for the medication for his illness and so the priority for maintaining the boat had fallen down the list.  Unfortunately, that meant that the boat hadn’t had a new engine for many years. It was now so unreliable that Zahi and his crew could never go too far out to sea for fear of not making it back, or worse, suffer the embarrassment of having to be towed back in by one of the other Captains.  That had happened last night and so Zahi knew that he wasn’t going out tonight.  He needed the work to pay for spare parts and so he had approached Abdi.

He called out loudly, ‘Abdi, what shiny new toys have you got in there?’ the crowd of labourers hushed in anticipation.  They respected Zahi and they respected Abdi.  Everyone knew that something was happening, but no one knew what yet.  The rumour was that Abdi was building his own fleet and the other Captains were not looking forward to the extra competition.

‘Zahi, I see you there. I heard you had a rough night; you and your crew are welcome to help.’ Abdi didn’t need the manpower, but he knew that he could use Zahi to manage the unloading, and that was worth the small extra expense.

‘But what are we unloading?’

‘Well, if you and your crew want to manage the unloading and get all of it down to the shoreline over there, then you will find out!’ Abdi pointed to a spot about a hundred meters away. Zahi looked at the spot, then back at the container.  This was going to be hard work, but he had nothing better to do this evening.

Having nodded his agreement, Zahi’s voice suddenly took on the tone and volume of a ship’s Captain projecting across the beach. ‘You lot! Stop standing there gawping like you did the first time your saw a woman’s tit!  You won’t get paid until everything that is inside that container is over there!  If one of you scum breaks anything, or drops anything, I will personally ask Allah to make your wives infertile!’  Pointing to his regular crew he followed up more quietly with ‘Tadalesh, Yuusuf, split this sorry bunch of fish food into two groups and let’s get this lot unloaded!’

Two hours later just as the sun was setting over the ocean Abdi was unpacking one of the black plastic crates.  He had paid off the workers and they were heading back to Hobyo gossiping about what they had seen. Inside one of the crates were items not usually associated with fishing.  Satellite phones, small solar panels to charge them, reverse osmosis water filters capable of taking sea water and producing drinking water, kerosene cookers and tarpaulins. In addition, some other items were laid up alongside the skiffs and they had caused the biggest stir.  There were four, five-meter ladders fashioned out of iron bar and with a hook mechanism welded to the top. There were some four-pronged grappling hooks, with a thick knotted rope already attached. Finally, there were more empty fuel jerry cans than could possibly be needed for a simple night’s fishing.

Zahi stepped up behind Abdi, looking at the contents laid out around them and spoke. ‘With all of this you are not going fishing, are you?’

Abdi replied, ‘Actually, yes, I am in a way. How would you feel about you and your crew taking one of these skiffs for me and hooking us the biggest fish you have ever seen?’

Abdi and Zahi sat there as it grew darker, deep in conversation, watching lights bobbing up and down on the waves out to sea. They watched as the community fishing boats tried to lure squid and other prey to the surface from the depths.

Chapter 4.

August 15th, Hobyo, Somalia.

Abdi’s could tell that his father was nervous. They were in the family’s battered old white Toyota Landcruiser and Abdi was driving.  Pale white dust was flying up behind the 4x4 creating a plume that could be seen for miles. Inside the car, Mohamed kept stroking his beard, stopping only to hawk and spit out of the open window.  Abdi himself was unsettled just because his father was nervous, and his armpits were damp with sweat. Sure, the humidity and the heat weren’t helping, but he wasn’t in London anymore and couldn’t just turn up the air conditioning.

They were driving to meet his fathers ‘Associate’, the man who had lent Abdi the money. The Associate had called this morning to say that he was flying to Mogadishu on business, but would stop at the small airstrip in Hobyo on the way. He wanted to meet Abdi for the first time and talk.

Hobyo airport was only a kilometre or so away from the town but in that short journey Mohamed had wound himself up so much that he was a wreck.  Abdi tried to calm him down.

‘Father I am sure it will be OK.  He is just coming to check on his investment.’

‘Son, I have only met this man once before. He is immensely powerful, extraordinarily rich. I don’t understand why he is spending valuable time coming to look at what you are doing.  It doesn’t make sense.’

‘But he has invested his money with us.  If I had invested money, I would want to meet the person who I had invested in.  It’s OK, I will speak to him, answer his questions, make sure he is happy, and then he can get back on his little plane and leave us to make him richer.’

The car pulled up as it approached the airport. A simple chain was raised across the road and a dishevelled looking guard was sitting in the shade of a tin hut on the left-hand side.  The guard had seen the car approaching and even though there were no flights scheduled for today, and this was probably the one interesting highlight of his day, he was obviously disinterested and lethargic in his movements.

Mohamed, normally a patient man, let the stress get to him and snapped out of the window, ‘Move! Or I will feed your balls to my goats!’

The guard stared, spat, and walked in an insolent way just short of total disobedience to the chain where he unhooked it, letting it fall to the ground.  Abdi drove forward about another 100 meters and parked on the side of the cleared aircraft apron.  There was no one else around and they sat in the car waiting.

The Hobyo airstrip was simple. The bush had been flattened and cleared for just over 2 kilometres and about halfway along its length, an apron for the aircraft to load and unload passengers and cargo had also been cleared.  On the southern side, nearest the city, were two buildings made from rusting corrugated iron sheet. A couple of roof panels had come loose from the incessant coastal wind and were flapping noisily.

As they sat and waited Mohamed continued to fidget.  The wind was blowing strongly from the south, causing dust devils to rise and track across the terrain. Old plastic bags caught in the bushes flapped angrily as they slowly tore themselves to shreds.

The wait wasn’t long, and just before mid-day Abdi saw the aircraft approach from the North.  It touched down lightly on the strip and taxied towards the apron.  Abdi didn’t know his aircraft, but he did see that this wasn’t a little run about.  The aircraft fuselage sat on top of a low wing base. Pale cream in colour there was a flamboyant red sash painted along its length that ended in a swirl on the tail.  The twin jet engines were aft of the wings and set high on the tail. It was a clever design that allowed the aircraft to land on rougher strips and not swallow all the dust that the wheels kicked up, preserving engine life.

The aircraft pulled up on the apron and shut down. The door opened in two parts like a clamshell, smoothly lowering the internal staircase as well. A petite oriental woman immaculately uniformed and with long black hair coiled smoothly on top of her head, stood at the top of the ladder and beckoned Abdi and Mohamed to come.

Leaving their car, they walked to the aircraft and up the stairs. As they entered the lady asked for their cell phones, which once handed over were locked in a cabinet.  Abdi led the way into the cabin trying really hard to conceal his surprise at the opulence he saw as he did so. The lady pushed a button and the aircraft doors closed behind them with soft thump.  The interior was brightly lit.  Anything that wasn’t white suede or leather was gold.  At the far end at a table sat a short, thin, bald man wearing a navy-blue pin stripe suit and an emerald, green tie.  The man was on the phone speaking in a language they didn’t recognise and indicated for Abdi and Mohamed to sit. Abdi felt a ridiculous urge to brush the dust off his clothes before he sat down on the pristine white leather executive chair. That of course would have pushed the dust onto the floor which as he looked down, he noticed had a white carpet about three inches thick.  His grubby, hairy toes, sticking out of his walking sandals looked ridiculous sinking into the floor.

When he looked back up The Associate had finished his call and was studying him. In an accent that he couldn’t quite place, somewhere between Japan and Nigeria he said. ‘So, you are Abdi.  Have you spent my money well?’

Abdi, a little shocked at the lack of an introduction or even common courtesy greetings quickly recovered and said, ‘Yes, everything has arrived as planned, would you like me to brief you on what I plan to do?’

‘No. I know that you intend to send the vessels out at the end of this month when the monsoon weather has cleared.  Have you found reliable crews?’

Abdi was even more unnerved that this man should have taken the time and effort to find out the detail of what he intended. ‘Yes. I have some good Captains and have allowed them to pick their teams. I felt that they should be both familiar and comfortable with each other as they will have a difficult job to do.’

The Associate nodded his agreement and said, ‘If they are successful in their expedition, how long do you think it will take to get a return on the investment and how much are you modelling?’

Abdi’s confidence was growing, financial returns and business plans were his strength and he had spent many months refining this one.  ‘The return depends greatly on the size of the prize captured.  If it’s a Chinese factory fishing ship, then we should negotiate for about one million dollars.  If it’s a container vessel, then depending on the cargo we should be asking for about three million.  Having studied the insurance market and the ransom returns in the Asian market I would expect negotiations to take anything between 2 and 6 months. I think therefore, that even though we may lose some crews to the sea, we should be able to repeat the project several times over, replacing skiffs and crews where needed.  I will make sure that successful crews are well paid, and in line with our customs I will make some compensation payments to the families of those who die.’

His turn to be surprised, The Associate looked at Abdi while he considered all this information. ‘Very well, you may use the funds for one year. You may manage them as you see fit. I will expect a strong financial return after each successful project, and I expect at least three